


Enchantment

by Adelth



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fae & Fairies, Fairy Victor Nikiforov, First Meetings, Grand Prix Final Banquet, Human Katsuki Yuuri, M/M, Magical Realism, NOW WITH ART!!!, Skater Katsuki Yuuri, Sochi still happened, Summoning, but was way weirder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-04-30 03:25:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14487792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adelth/pseuds/Adelth
Summary: Chris and Yuuri get kicked out of the GPF banquet, but Yuuri wanders into another party that's out-of-this-world. He still manages to make an impression.~“Well, I want my dog back. And not to have bombed my free skate and ruined my career. And I’d like to dance with you, but I don’t think he can give me that either.”The most beautiful man in the world bites his lip on a smile, “Maybe later.”“Gods.” Yuuri can hear the small one’s eyes rolling, even though he doesn’t bother to look. “What kind of dog?”“He was a miniature poodle.”“Fine,” grinds out the small, angry blond. “Fine.”





	1. The Life of the Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why did I write a fantasy AU that still has skating? I know nothing about skating. No really, why did I do this to myself?

**_“Incidentally, the world is magical.”_ **

~ Vera Nazarian, _The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration_

 

When Phichit first introduces Yuuri to his “familiars”, he assumes his new roommate is joking. Yuuri laughs along awkwardly, unsure how he’s going to manage living with this stranger, but glad that he seems friendly. He finds the Thai skater’s sheer extroversion a bit alarming, but gradually adjusts to the cheerful enthusiasm that tempers his own solemn determination at the rink.

A month into their joint tenancy, the boy he’s beginning to suspect may actually be his friend tells him the whole story. Idly sitting around their small kitchen table on a rest day, he tells Yuuri how he’d stopped to help a withered old woman who'd seemed lost. She’d been offended and disoriented by a new building, apparently, and Phichit had spent most of an afternoon guiding her home based on a series of directions around cryptic landmarks.

“I’d never have made it without Google Earth and Twitter,” says Phichit, who at one point had to figure out which building on a block had once been struck by lightning, so he could circle it three times and walk a hundred paces north to the next milestone.  

“Didn’t that seem a bit...weird?” asks Yuuri.

“Well, yeah. But by the time it got weird I had already offered to help and it wasn’t like I could just walk away.”

Yuuri supposes he wouldn’t have either, but he’d have wanted to. Phichit on the other hand is characteristically exuberant as he continues his story.

“So we finally end up at this wooden door tucked in the back of an alley, down by the water right? And the old lady gives me three pebbles ‘for my trouble’ and tells me they’ll keep me from being lonely if I take care of them.”

Here Phichit pauses, widens his eyes imploringly. “I swear Yuuri, I looked back as I was walking away and the door was _gone_. It was freaky, but I figured I should take the old lady seriously. So I washed the stones when I got home, and I wrapped them in a nice soft cloth and put them under my pillow until I could figure out what to do with them. Then when I woke up there were three hamsters all curled up together next to my head, and the pebbles were gone.”

The story, which had started as an excited rush of words, tapers down to an awed whisper by the end. Yuuri isn’t sure what to think, but he’s never been one the rock the boat. It’s not like he’s going to call Phichit a liar.

“Is that why they’re named Albus, Merlin, and Glinda?” Yuuri _had_ wondered about the theme.

“They’re magic hamsters Yuuri,” says Phichit.

“Do they do anything magical?” He’s pretty sure they don’t, which means he can continue ignoring any inconvenient questions about the nature of reality.

“They’ve outlived their natural lifespan by a solid year,” Phichit answers cheerfully.

Yuuri supposes he can live with that.

~

Potentially immortal pets aside, Yuuri doesn’t have much time for magic. He’s heard any number of mythic tales around the founding of various onsen, but if you ask his parents they’ll just tell you how they worked and saved to buy their dream.

Magic, to Yuuri, is the feeling when he lands his quad salchow like it’s easy. It’s the expectant stillness in the air, when the rink is empty and the ice is fresh, when he really believes he can go out there and do _anything_. It’s the process by which sweat and bruises and endless hours of steel blades on frozen water become a performance so transcendent they hang a medal around your neck when you’re done.

It’s the antithesis of the confused buzzing in his head when he’s surrounded by flashing cameras and shouting reporters.

_Skater Katsuki, what happened? Are you planning to retire?_

_How does it feel to blow your best chance?_

_Are you really going to cry over your dead dog again?_

Okay, maybe the reporters hadn’t actually been all that interested in him. At 23 he’s already a has been who hadn’t actually been. It had looked like this might finally be his year, but no. Celestino talks about nationals as he drags Yuuri to the banquet, but he’s not really hearing anything right now.

Mostly he’s wishing his pet was immortal too.

Celestino seems to accept that he’s not getting anywhere tonight. Yuuri is left safely ensconced in a corner while his coach tries to salvage what he can of Yuuri’s public image. He’s a good coach, a good person, he picks up the slack without complaint. He’s not magic though, he won’t be able to perform a miracle and resurrect either Yuuri’s dog or his career.

Alcohol, on the other hand, is actually magical. It transforms Yuuri into someone who doesn’t care. Already he feels lighter on his feet, as if the bubbles in his champagne will let him float away if he just drinks enough of it.

Minako used to tell him to jump like he could fly, back in her ballet studio in Hatsetsu. He wonders if it will work better if he tries it now, fizzing and buoyant. He’s not sure he’d be able to tell, without a room full of mirrors and Minako’s exacting gaze to measure his progress. He’d need someone to compare himself to, at least. 

 _Chris_ he decides, Chris can jump, and they kind of know each other so it won’t be too weird. The depressingly young silver medalist looked like he had ballet training, maybe Yuuri should ask him as well. Or convince Chris to. Maybe he can get some better music playing while he’s at it.

He takes a champagne bottle with him as he leaves his corner, since he’s worried about breaking one of the delicate glasses. This way he’ll know which one is his anyway. He feels steadier than he has all weekend as he weaves through the crowd, looking for a familiar tall blond.

~

Yuuri isn’t sure if they’d been thrown out of the banquet or just wandered off, but he is sure it was Chris’ fault. He doesn’t even know where Chris is anymore, but it was still his fault. The Swiss skater had been entirely too pleased when he’d stumbled up to him and explained that they had to dance. Now Yuuri’s at some other party and his pants are undone along with about half his shirt buttons. He can’t feel the sore feet that come part and parcel with being a competitive figure skater, but is still registering faint burning in his thighs. 

He thinks they might be outdoors, but that’s okay because he isn’t cold. There’s music and dancing and everyone is beautiful. Especially _him._ There’s a guy with silver hair talking to a small group, and he’s the most beautiful man in the world. Yuuri thinks someone should tell him.

“Excuse me,” he says once he’s wandered over. The man is even more lovely up close, with eyes a color between blue and green that Yuuri doesn’t even know how to describe. “You’re the most beautiful man in the world.”

The most beautiful man in the world looks a little startled by the interruption, but maybe no had bothered to tell him before, so Yuuri’s glad he did.

“Go away piggy,” says the little blond one. “You don’t belong here.” He’s tiny and lithe in a way that probably means he’s graceful without really trying. Ballet instructors and skating coaches would probably sigh over him, seeing the potential.

The most beautiful man in the world reaches down and ruffles his blond hair in a way he clearly hates. “He’s mourning, can’t you tell? Or are you still too young for that?”

“You’re really smart too,” says Yuuri, amazed by the deduction, and this time the man smiles at him.

“You are kind,” he says, attention finally on Yuuri. “But I don’t believe you’ve seen every man in the world, so how would you know?”

“Why would I need to keep looking for something I’ve already found?” Yuuri can’t quite wrap his mind around the idea.

The little blond makes a noise of exaggerated disgust. “I can’t believe I’m seeing this. What, are you a leannán sídhe all the sudden? Send this fool away.”

Yuuri is not a fool, and he doesn’t want to go away. He’s beginning to suspect he doesn’t like the small one’s attitude.

“You,” he says, pointing a finger, “are very small. And very rude. Dance off.”

Green eyes widen comically. “Are you _challenging_ me?”

“Yes,” says Yuuri, as if explaining to a small child. Which, come to think of it, he is.

The beautiful man opens his mouth and looks about to interrupt, but the small one angrily slashes a hand through the air. “No. You heard him, he offered first.”

He looks Yuuri up and down contemptuously. “I accept. What are your terms?”

Yuuri isn’t sure what he’s talking about, so he waits for things to start making sense again. They stare at each other silently for several moments.

The little blond growls in frustration. “Fine. If I win, I want your service for a hundred years.”

The beautiful man startles, perfect silver eyebrows drawing together. Yuuri is entranced, the man is beautiful even when he frowns, but he doesn’t want him to be upset. He smiles, silently urging the man to smile back.

“If I win then I win.” Winning is important to Yuuri, he’s sure.

“Surely there’s something you want,” says the silver haired man, who is kind and smart as well as beautiful.

“Well, I want my dog back. And not to have bombed my free skate and ruined my career. And I’d like to dance with you, but I don’t think he can give me that either.”

The most beautiful man in the world bites his lip on a smile, “Maybe later.”

“Gods.” Yuuri can hear the small one’s eyes rolling, even though he doesn’t bother to look. “What kind of dog?”

“He was a miniature poodle.”

“I _love_ poodles,” gasps the most beautiful man in the world, who is actually perfect.

“Fine,” grinds out the small, angry blond. “Fine.”

~

  


Yuuri wakes up on a park bench, in Russia, in the middle of winter. There’s snow on the ground, except for the strange thawed circle around his makeshift bed.

He’s not wearing any pants, there are friction burns on his thighs, and his tie is cinched around his head like a bandana. He smells like booze and regret.

There’s also a miniature poodle excitedly wiggling in his lap that looks very much like _his_ miniature poodle, but that’s impossible. His poodle is dead and cannot wiggle happily, and wouldn’t be in Russia anyway.

Yuuri maintains that he didn’t actually name his dog, that Mari called the little puppy “Dojira” and it stuck. Mari will just drawl “if you say so” when he points this out.

He holds the very familiar poodle up to eye level. “Your name is Vicchan,” he says, unsure where he’s pulled the name from. Vicchan just wags his tail and licks Yuuri’s face.

Yuuri feels like he should be panicking, but the fact that he’d been using his phone as a pillow serves to allay the most immediate of his concerns. He chooses not to question how it’s fully charged, and calls Christophe. He’s reasonably sure this is Giacometti’s fault, somehow.

“Yuuri,” says Chris, his voice gravelly with sleep, “if you’re going to wake me up this early you should at least spend the night.” 

Chris is genial and confident, fun and good-natured in a way that invites fond regard. He’ll then spend whatever good will he’s built up on casual perversion. That, combined with Yuuri’s own natural reticence, keeps them from being better friends.

It also makes him fairly easy to predict.

“I need help and I’m not wearing pants.”

“ _Cheri_ ,” purrs Chris, suddenly much more awake. “Why didn’t you just say so.”

~

 Chris is all too delighted by the prospect of bringing Yuuri pants, which was admittedly why Yuuri had called him and not Celestino, who would have been horrified.  

That’s not to say the process goes entirely smoothly. Yuuri’s not really sure where he is, and when Chris asks for landmarks he’s stuck describing a fountain and a statue of _I don’t know Chris, Stalin?_

“That’s Lenin,” says Chris, somewhat dubious, when he arrives. Yuuri is saved from having to explain that was his next guess when Chris remembers why he’s here and leers. “Still in last night’s boxer’s I see? Shame, I brought you a pair of mine just in case.”

Said “boxers” turn out to be a tiny red thong, _keep it Yuuri it would look amazing on you_ , but because Chris is actually a good person deep down he’s also brought unobjectionable if overlong trackpants.  

He even thought to bring an extra jacket, while Yuuri himself had mostly been stuck on the pants part. It isn’t until he’s pulled the offered garments on and stepped away from the bench that he realizes how cold out it is. He tucks Vicchan into the coat, bundles him against his chest so he won’t have to walk on the cold pavement.

“So,” says Chris, watching curiously, “you’re just going to keep that dog?”

“Yes.” He’s absolutely going to keep the dog.  

“Yuuri Katsuki, you’re not the first person I’ve rescued from a public park. But you’re the first I’ve seen finish a night of partying like an animal by adopting one.” Chris sounds admiring. “Come, we’re not far from the hotel. I’ll help you smuggle him in.”

~

 Celestino manages to look disappointed for about twenty seconds, when he finds a bedraggled Yuuri hiding a small poodle in his room, still dressed in Chris’ pants. He either looks obstinate or pathetic enough that his coach gives up quickly, sighing. “What happened last night Yuuri?” 

Yuuri isn’t sure, so he just hugs his dog. “This is Vicchan,” he offers.

“Yuuri...you can’t just take a dog out of the country.”

Yuuri doubles down on looking pathetic. It’s easy, because it’s an accurate portrayal of how he feels at the moment.

Celestino deflates, assuming the resigned posture of a man facing thirty pounds of government paperwork. “Alright Yuuri. You focus on getting ready for nationals. I make no promises, but I’ll see what I can do about customs.”

Yuuri nearly tears up in gratitude. He promises himself he’ll pull it together for nationals somehow, to repay the faith and investment being placed in him if nothing else.

“Thanks Coach,” he says, but the words seem insufficient. “I’ll bring home a gold medal this time.”

“Hmm.” Celestino looks at him consideringly. Yuuri _never_ predicts his own victory going into a competition, never voices that kind of confidence aloud. “Alright Yuuri,” he breaks into grin, “let’s both work hard.”

~

 Yuuri falls during his short program, falls badly and rolls across the ice. He scrambles up as quickly as he can, out of place and off time, but touches a hand down on his next combination anyway. It’s only thanks to the shallow field of inexperienced skaters this year that he doesn’t sink lower than fifth place, that and the way the current points system is unduly kind to him for getting his rotations in.

He lies in bed that night, sleepless under the weight of his impending failure. He’s only 14.28 points behind the skater leading the boards, but he’s never been a competitor who can come from the back. The few times he’s done well he’s placed better than expected in the short program and managed to carry the euphoric momentum through the free.

Once he’s shaken, he tends to stay shaken. No one’s surprised, exactly, he’s always been inconsistent. But Japan had been hoping so hard he’d be their answer to Christophe Giacometti and Cao Bin, that his performance in the Grand Prix qualifiers might be something he could maintain.

Yuuri rolls over, feeling the new bruises on his hip and shoulder, and tries to clear his mind. He thinks of his coach diligently working to bring his dog to America, his roommate excitedly collecting supplies and getting their apartment ready while Yuuri’s in Japan. He remembers Chris making a scene in the hotel lobby so Yuuri could sneak by undetected, Vicchan’s brown curls and warm weight pressed close to his chest.

“Vicchan,” he reminds himself, softly. Vicchan is fine, is safe, is waiting for him. Nothing can be so bad.

He falls into a dream, a simple thing where someone’s singing a lullaby, and sleeps soundly through the night.

~

 “He was _not_ calling you. He was calling his dog, which he named after you, because you’re a dumbass who gave a mortal your _name._ Who even does that?”

“Just out of curiosity, do you mean ‘who gives a mortal their name?’ or ‘who names a dog after the otherworldly being that deigned to favour them with a name?’”

“Shut up Baba. I meant both of them! They’re both senseless.”

“You saw how the Madam was looking at him! He was such a beautiful dancer, you know she’d never have let him go.”

“You think you could stop her if she decided she wanted him? Stop kidding yourself, we’re not that kind of fairy. Aren’t _you_ supposed to be teaching _me_ that?”

“Language, Yura. There’s no need to be so coarse. Sometimes I wonder if you’ll ever be suitable for anything other than singing for soldiers.”

“Ha! As if that’d be so bad. Not all of us are stuck up, spoiled rotten diva’s who fall to pieces because some mortal compliments them. I swear you weren’t always this pathetic.”

“Shhh, I don’t want to miss it if he calls for me in his sleep.”

~

 Yuuri flies back to Detroit with a gold medal in his carry on. He keeps checking to make sure it’s actually there, fingering the round edge without pulling it out. He’d landed his quad salchow cleanly, the best he’d ever managed in competition. He’d two-footed his triple axel, but still managed to finish 6 points ahead of the silver medalist. Minami Kenjirou had under rotated his own quad toe loop, and touched down when he tried to put his triple flip in combination to make up the difference.

But...but the thing is, even if the excitable younger skater had hit all his elements, Yuuri would still have won. By a smaller margin, sure, but no one at All-Japan had the technical scores to challenge Yuuri’s program when he actually managed to execute it.

Yuuri’s not sure what to make of it. This is his third year as the Japanese national champion, but he’d first won the title in an upset victory on the back of his PCS. Commentators had praised his particularly evocative performance, but no one had really believed he’d be able to win again with a different program next year. Not up until he did exactly that.

Somewhere along the way people had come around to the idea that he was Japan’s dominant competitive figure skater. It seems laughable whenever he’s competing at an international level, where everyone is so far beyond him, but people at home really believe it. _Minami_ really believes it, as was made abundantly clear when he couldn’t even wait until they were off the podium to ask for an autograph. The teenager practically vibrated with joy, seeming more excited by the signature than the medal he’d be taking home.

Yuuri has never been the odds-on favorite to win before, not at a senior level anyway. It’s different, somehow. For once, he doesn’t feel like he’s won by mistake, like someone will come and take his medal if they notice he has it. He’d been expected to win, and he had. Maybe he’d even deserved to.  

The feeling won’t last. Four Continents and Worlds are coming, and he’d need to do better than he ever has to contend for a medal there. Christophe can land a quad lutz, of all things, on top of being solid at everything else. Rumor has it that several skaters are working on a quad loop. Yuuri doesn’t know where to pull an extra 12 points from when he’s already throwing everything he has into his programs. He’s been slowly moving his jumps to the back half, but even with his performance components be barely feels competitive.

The worry is there, but it’s distant for now. The GPF was still an embarrassment, but a three time national champion couldn't be written off so easily. He’s done what he can to save his career, and he’ll at least have a chance to move forward.

For once, Yuuri lets himself bask in his victory.

~

Yuuri returns to Detroit, and things go back to normal, more or less. He trains, he worries, he dreams about training and worrying. Vicchan spurns the bed in favour of the laundry basket more often than not, but Yuuri can hear him breathing at night, and somehow that makes all the difference.

Vicchan is fascinated by the hamsters, who are far less interested in him, despite Phichit’s best efforts. The Thai skater, for his part, is perfectly happy to have another small creature around to play with and love. He’s kind enough not to question the way Yuuri has chosen to spontaneously replace his childhood pet.

Yuuri starts getting up even earlier than usual to take Vicchan on a run without attracting his neighbors’ attention. Phichit insists no one will care about their new addition, but Yuuri can’t help being self-conscious about flaunting their rental agreement. Also, he’d hate to have to fight anyone who tries to take Vicchan away.

All in all, Yuuri feels good. He works hard every day, and at least half the time thinks he’s getting somewhere at the rink. There’s only so much he can do in the lead up to his next competition, but Celestino took him seriously when he expressed his desire to increase his technical ability, even at the possible expense of polishing this year’s programs to best effect.

Yuuri’s performance scores don’t come out of nowhere, even if the point is to look effortless. He can sweep across the ice so cleanly, with so little extra movement, because of the countless hours he’s spent doing figures. He practices the intricate footwork he’s known for before and after his sessions with Celestino, while he’s waiting for tea to brew in the morning, and in the corridor to laundry room if there’s no one to see.

There’s a full length mirror on the back of his bedroom door, and another on the front of his closet; he stretches and poses before going to bed each night, checks the lines of his body, makes sure his fingers look right when he gestures. Sometimes what feels graceful looks like clawing grabby-hands, and Yuuri has spent too much time in Minako’s tender care to disregard the value of staring at himself in a mirror.

He’s good because he practises, but it’s also true that he practises because he’s good. It’s always been obvious where his strengths were as a skater; the coaches and programs he’s been successful with have played to those proclivities. It’s not that he’s never been pushed out of his comfort zone, but he’s never reacted well to it. When people start asking for things he isn’t good at, he feels like he’s failing, and when he feels like he’s failing he falls apart.

They don’t say it to his face, but he can tell some people blame Minako’s early coaching. She taught him to find the points in spins and step sequences, to succeed without strong jumps. Maybe he wouldn’t have such difficulty now if he’d had a real skating coach from the beginning, if someone with the expertise to do it safely had drilled the fundamentals into him until he couldn’t be afraid of them anymore.

Every time Yuuri approaches a jump he worries about his edges, whether it’s clear how he’s taking off. He worries about whether he’s telegraphing, if his axis is correct, if he has enough height. He worries that it will show on his face how much he’s worrying, but most of all he worries how obvious the mistake will be if he falls. When he falls, rather, because he almost always does.

For years he’s watched younger skaters pick up jumps more quickly and confidently, and he knows part of what’s holding him back is fear. It’s even harder for a coach to push him now than it might have been when he was younger, both because he’s more set in his ways and because no one wants to risk injuring a senior skater on legitimately dangerous jumps they don’t feel ready for.

He also knows no one can fix his problems for him, no matter how much he wishes someone could just show him the way. People can compile snide videos of his falls, or lament a judging system that doesn’t reward his artistic ability, but none of that actually gets him anywhere.

That facts are that he wouldn’t have a career at all if Minako hadn’t stepped up, and that he might not have one for much longer if he doesn’t find a way to work on his weaknesses.

He’s 23, and it’s not enough anymore to barely hang on, to have just enough success to get by. He’s going to make himself a serious contender at international events, or he’s going to fail. He’s made a list of the things he’s uncomfortable with, and he’s going to work on them all.

He practises three jump combinations, which he’s always hated. He drills his lutz and flip until he’s sure of his edges, and when he comes in the next day and performs some sort of disastrous triple flutz, he just puts his head down and starts again. He may not be anywhere near acquiring a third quad, but he experiments with entries into the ones he already has. When he’s too overwrought for anything new he pushes his triple axel for height and distance.

Celestino pulls him aside once to ask if he’s alright, and Yuuri doesn’t know how to explain that he is. He’s so tired he doesn’t have the energy to be discontent. He knows he can’t keep it up forever, but there’s a certain satisfaction in confronting his problems head on, and he’s going make the most of his current motivation.

Phichit tells him he looks happy, and he thinks he might be. He hasn’t talked to his family about Vicchan yet, but that’s about the only nagging thing hanging over his head.

His skates feel good when he pulls them on, and so do his clothes, instead of conspicuously ill-fitting like they sometimes do. He’s somehow managed to purge all the socks with holes from his wardrobe. He hasn’t lost his earbuds, let the milk go bad, or run out of bananas since he got back from Japan.

He’s starting to wonder if he might actually have his life under control, and if this is what being an adult feels like. His bed is soft and welcoming when he falls into it at night, and he doesn’t even remember making it when he got up. He’s always done well with a routine, he supposes as he drifts off, maybe it’s a bit like skating figures. With Vicchan to take care of, he doesn’t even mind going to bed early, knowing he’ll get to spend time with his dog when he wakes up.

~

Victor is not amused. He is powerful and auguste, emperors and queens have offered fortunes on the mere chance of attracting his regard, in the hope that he’d sing for their passing. No one should dare trifle with him in this manner. He throws his shoulders back and breaths in, feeling the song of the wyrd humming in the air. Then he flops, full bodied, into a bed of soft clover.

He lounges sulkily, unwilling to relinquish the memory of that night. He arches his back and splays his arms above his head, relishing the stretch as he recalls the touch of warm hands on his hips. He can almost feel the phantom grip that had swung him around in joyous dance. _This,_ he decides, _is not fair._

It might not be so bad had he simply been cast aside, he is not the sort of fae who requires mortal adulation. Despite Yura’s dramatics, the worst the dancer should have been able to do was spurn his attentions, break his heart a little. He’d have keened his sorrow, but that is something he can withstand, can draw strength from even.

Instead, _this torment._

Again and again, the dancer calls something that is almost his name, just close enough that he cannot ignore it. It’s maddening. Victor cannot decide if wants the man to stop entirely, or to just do it properly next time, with intent.

Just as well he cannot bring himself to hate a hound, or he would by now. Jealousy, he allows himself. Faithful Makkachin, who cannot understand the folly Victor has brought upon himself, comes over to lay near him anyway. His great green body casts a shadow over the patch of clover, but Victor supposes that suits his mood well enough.

“What should I do?” he asks the Cù Sìth, who only yawns and settles in to nap. “‘To sleep, perchance to dream’ is it? I’ve never liked that story, I wouldn’t have sung his death for all the gold in Denmark.”

Makkachin yaps sleepily, nothing like the baying his kind was known for. “Yes, yes, darling.” Victor reaches across to scratch beneath a furred chin. “He’d have been very frightened of you, I’m sure.”

~

As usual, things are going well for Yuuri until they abruptly aren’t. He goes to bed a bit sore, nothing unusual given how he spends his days. He wakes up before sunrise, ready to take Vicchan for his morning run, and grunts in surprised pain as he tries to sit up. His breath escapes him in a gasp as his back full-on spasms. He freezes indecisively, torn between going limp and trying to stretch out the knotting in his lower back. The cramp loosens after a few slow exhalations, but the muscles are left wrung out and sore.

Yuuri gingerly makes his way to the kitchen, taking small shuffling steps. His back seizes again when he reaches up to open the freezer, and he has to brace himself against the fridge for a moment before managing to retrieve an ice pack.

He lies down right there on the kitchen floor, doesn’t bother wrapping the ice pack in a towel, just shoves it under his lower back outside his shirt. He’s still there, knees up, pajama clad legs spread, thoroughly undignified when Phichit wanders in for the morning.

That makes it real somehow, this isn’t going to go away before anyone notices. Yuuri looks at his friend’s concerned face, hands fluttering with the desire to help. “Fuck,” he says.

~

 Phichit does the dutiful thing and calls their coach. Celestino has a lifetime’s experience dealing with skaters and the various injuries they accumulate, his intervention is concerned but calm. After establishing that Yuuri hasn’t taken a bad fall when he wasn’t looking, and that he’s not bruised any more than usual, he tells them it’s probably just muscle strain.

A doctor confirms lumbar strain, and gives Yuuri stretches to perform that aren’t half as intensive as his usual routine. Yuuri finds that the only comfortable position is flat on his back, though he’s not really on bed rest. Moving is going to be key to healing, in this case, and he’s encouraged to stretch and walk as much as he can without undue pain.

It’s not a terrible injury, not a broken leg or a torn ACL. It wouldn’t be a career-ender, if Yuuri’s career wasn’t already teetering on the edge. It's just very badly timed. Backs take a long time to heal, anywhere from 4 to 10 weeks. Four Continents, only 3 weeks away, is out of the question. They’ll send Minami instead, probably. Celestino won’t hear of putting him on the ice until at least 4 weeks, if he’s healing well.

Even if he is back to training in a month, that’s time he can’t afford to lose. Optimistically, he’ll have a bit more than 3 weeks to prepare for Worlds.   

Yuuri feels dangerously close to just giving up. It wouldn’t be so bad, would it? If he could say he’d retired due to injury, instead of being forced out but his lack of skill. Some of the more invested skating fans might question it, but the headlines wouldn’t. Minami would perform decently at Four Continents, and become Japan’s new skating hope; Yuuri would fade from memory.

He knows he’s being maudlin, that he’ll just have to pick himself up and keep going. He’ll do what he always does, put his head down and hold on for dear life. He’s always managed before and he will this time too.

Sure he will.

~

 Yuuri isn’t blind to the fact that he’s not handling his time away from the ice well. He goes on long walks, but gets embarrassed by his slow gait when there’s a lot of foot traffic passing through. He feels like everyone is watching him, moving sluggish and infirm through a route he usually runs full tilt. He feels like it’s obvious how diminished he is.

He starts walking in the evening instead, sometimes even after full dark. He drifts father off his schedule, not crawling out of bed until well after Phichit’s left for the day. He digs out the diet-prohibited white rice hidden in the back of a cupboard, and tells himself that at least it isn’t fried in grease or laden with sugar. He runs through portions of his step-work listlessly, because what Phichit doesn’t see can’t hurt him. He sleeps a lot, because sleeping doesn’t hurt either. He’s always slept on his back, so at least that’s something he doesn’t struggle with.

There have been times in his life when he could only dream of getting this much rest. He tries to appreciate the luxury, but mostly he just feels like crap. Paradoxically, the more he sleeps and eats the less energy he has. He’s starting to hate his apartment, but the longer he spends inside the more self conscious he becomes about leaving.

Today two women about his age had stopped in the street to coo over Vicchan. One, tall with pretty blonde curls, had seemed _interested._ Normally Yuuri might have at least tried, albeit awkwardly, given he wasn’t particularly good at talking to new people. For once he actually has time on his hands, and loving dogs was a good start right?

Instead, Yuuri’s skin had crawled for the duration of the interaction, and he’d left as soon as he could. He hadn’t even bothered with the rest of his walk, he just went straight home. It’s not unusual for him to be nervous about crowds, but the creeping paranoia, the feeling of eyes following his every move is new.

He lies in bed with the lights off, the feeling of his nascent self-destruction pressing in around him. He’s barely been awake 10 hours, but he settles into uneasy sleep again anyway. It’s what he does, these days.

~ 

It’s still dark out when Yuuri is roused by...something. A dream maybe. His bedroom door is open a crack, and Vicchan isn’t in the room. Probably Phichit had let him out.

“Vicchan!” he calls softly, but doesn’t hear paws scrambling towards him in the dark.  

“Vicchan!” he tries again, louder, more forceful. “Vicchan! Come!”

There is a strange moment where it feels like the air in the room, the walls of the building, maybe the whole world sighs. Shadows flicker, light glinting across his closet mirror, where it stands facing his bed.

“Good enough,” says a voice, muffled, and then a figure coalesces in the tall mirror. It happens with terrifying suddenness, darkness pulling towards the center of the reflective surface, faintly backlit with eerie light. It bubbles up, and Yuuri hardly has time to register the shape before it’s stepping into his room, as if the solid plane of the mirror was an empty doorway instead.

Yuuri wonders if this is sleep paralysis, one of those terribly real nightmares where you can’t move at all. The figure standing a meter from the foot of his bed is tall, draped in a black shroud, with ghostly white hair hanging around his face and uncanny pale eyes. He, for it is a man, is beautiful and macabre.

“Katsuki Yuuri,” says the man, and it turns out Yuuri isn’t completely paralyzed, because he manages to gulp audibly. He can feel that unearthly gaze assessing him keenly, has no idea what it could be looking for. The man presses a finger to his mouth, cocks his head, _and winks._

“Yuuri,” he says, taking a step forward _-holyshit-_ and throwing out an arm. “Starting today, I’ll be your familiar!” The shroud he’d been swathed in, black and artfully tattered, slips and falls with the gesture. He isn’t wearing anything underneath.

Yuuri watches the fabric drift and settle against the floor, considers the pale body laid bare in the dim light. It’s a nice body, as these things go, but he’s only vaguely able to appreciate it as his vision tunnels, and he passes the fuck out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Victor is probably going to make an entrance while inappropriately naked in just about every fic I write. It's just that much fun. This thing will probably be 2 or 3 parts total, so not epic length, but there is more to come.
> 
> If you're wondering why I'm co-opting vaguely Celtic lore instead of something more culturally relevant to the characters, well, I already wrote that! Check it out on my profile if you're interested. 
> 
> I have a tumblr account I only half understand how to use, but if I notice someone trying to communicate with me over there I will try to communicate back. https://www.tumblr.com/blog/adelth
> 
> I guess that's it! Thanks for reading.


	2. The Morning After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I had nice careful notes written before my laptop abruptly decided to restart itself. I thought my power cable must have come loose, but no, it was just updating without warning. This is not my happy face, and now you get quick rough notes. Essentially:
> 
> 1\. I wrote Yuuri as more-bi-than-gay and also not-a-virgin, largely because I am a contrary person. Also I bumped the rating, so if the moderately explicit depiction of a past sexual experience with a woman offends you, best skip the 9th paragraph. I have no idea if this actually shocks/upsets anyone, but I'm trying to play it safe. 
> 
> 2\. Victor is well meaning but misguided. Don't be like Victor.

Yuuri wakes up in the morning with the kind of low grade headache that comes from lying down too long. If he gets up, his back will hurt, but if he doesn’t the thrumming ache behind his temples will only get worse. His whole body feels gross and stiff from being in bed too long, and he knows he’ll feel better once he gets up and stretches out, but he lingers a few moments with his eyes closed anyway. Unwillingness to face the day, he supposes.

He’s comfortably warm, and he can hear Vicchan breathing. He thinks he had some sort of alarming dream about Vicchan the night before, so he’s glad for the warm pressure against his side that indicates the dog has joined him on the bed. As if in acknowledgement of Yuuri’s thought, Vicchan snuffles in his sleep and wraps his arm tighter around Yuuri’s waist.

Yuuri comes fully awake in one still moment, dragged forth by the sudden awareness of a body curled into his. A human body, from the pointed nose tickling his neck to the bony shins tangled with his. He opens his eyes slowly, fixated on the pale arm reaching across, fingers tucked into the space between his body and the mattress. Yuuri, generally defensive about his personal space, doesn’t think he’s ever been cuddled with quite this much commitment.

He wonders, confusedly, what he'd been doing the night before. There was a woman yesterday, who’d flashed coy eyes at him while bending over to pet his dog. “ _Cute, just like his owner,”_ she’d said, with the sort of boldness that tended to draw him in. Whether due to youthful inexperience or social convention, Yuuri never had much luck with girls back in Hatsetstu. There’d been a boy or two who snuck covert kisses, but with girls it always seemed like he was expected to make the first move, and he lacked the confidence to expose himself like that. He’d experienced a moment of bitterness when Takeshi had asked Yuuko out, but managed not to blame himself for being who he was. Their obvious happiness together prevented it from becoming a lingering wound, the way so many of his insecurities had.

Actually, before coming to America, the concept of being attracted to women was largely theoretical to him. His childhood crush on Yuuko had been just that, childish and thoroughly nonsexual. He’d liked her skating, the intrepid way she approached challenges, and how she was always kind to him. He assumed that if he ever managed to enter a relationship, it would be with some boy who bothered to pursue him. Even that became more and more unlikely as skating took over his life, distancing him from his peers.

When he was 17 he’d met Sara Crispino at an international event, and she’d chosen to latch onto him with an exuberance that was halfway between flattering and frightening. She’d kissed his cheeks then hugged him close as she complimented his exhibition skate, leaving him stunned by the feeling of soft breasts pressed against his chest through their thin costumes. _This is nice,_ he’d thought, and he might even have hugged back if her brother hadn’t been glaring furiously over her shoulder.

Sara was undeniably beautiful, and he might have been interested in feeling her up if she let him, but he’d quickly decided to stay away from whatever drama was going on between her and her brother. He was reasonably sure she fixated on him precisely _because_ he was shy and nonthreatening, the kind of boy who’d never push. She’d sort-of flirt with him to prove she could, and he’d be friendly in a politely distant way. Michele fumed, but didn’t go out of his way to harass Yuuri when his sister wasn’t around. It was strange, but it worked for them.

He’d thought they might all settle into a friendship one day, but Michele had doubled down on his resentful paranoia when they’d been about 20. Christophe claimed it was because Yuuri had drunkenly propositioned both of them at once, but Christophe was full of shit. There wasn’t enough booze in the world to make Yuuri that crazy.

Yuuri’s first frat party had been a surprise, not because of the drinking and debauchery, but because of the freckled brunette in a hockey jersey who’d dropped right into his lap and introduced herself. Her name was Ashley, 21, with hazel eyes and wide hips. She’d laughed and kissed his neck when she found out he’d packed not only condoms but lube. _“That’s hot,”_ she said, when Yuuri bashfully explained he’d hoped to be picked up by some square-jawed frat boy, if at all. She’d let Yuuri explore the blue-veined mounds of her breasts, the glistening petals of her sex, though she’d been a bit flustered by his fascination with the later. He remembered it clearly, because he hadn’t been drunk, had stayed away from the alcohol due to his vague intention to hook up.

Christophe Giacometti is one of the few people he’s actually slept beside, though the room had been too hot and humid to hold one another, even if they’d been inclined. They didn’t often compete at the same events, but they’d ended up at the same ice show when Yuuri had been 22. He’d told himself he wasn’t going to sleep with Chris, there was something about his single-minded pursuit of sex that put Yuuri off. Chris, however, was devious son of a bitch when he wanted to be. He’d come to Yuuri and apologized, said he’d never meant to make Yuuri uncomfortable. Then he’d dropped to his knees, hands behind his back, and offered to let Yuuri punish him.

Yuuri was mostly sure Chris hadn’t been expecting it to work, had gripped blond curls and pulled Chris’ head back mostly for the gratifying widening of his eyes and the way the cords of his neck had stood out as he swallowed. Chris was older and bigger, six feet of solid muscle, stubble, and sexual confidence. Yuuri couldn’t help but be intrigued by the prospect of having him on his knees. They'd never done it again, but somehow became friends after. There was something about knowing what Chris sounded like begging to be fucked, and witnessing how he felt in no way diminished by the experience, that made his gleeful celebration of his own sexuality less overbearing. Chris was a lot to take in, but he wasn’t selfish in his hedonistic desires. He seemed to think the whole world could stand to get laid, and he was the man for the job. 

It’s the body in his bed now, heavy and hard, that brings back the memory of Chris. He eyes the slender but masculine forearm gripping him, the arm getting bulkier as he follows the length of it up to a toned bicep and outright built deltoid. _Not the girl with the blonde curls._

It isn’t until he registers ghostly grey-white hair, falling across and obscuring most of the stranger’s face, that he connects the dream he had last night with the man sleeping against his shoulder. He’s out of the bed and pressed against the far wall so fast his back doesn’t even have time to protest, or maybe that’s just the adrenaline.

He’d intended to flee out of the room, and possibly the apartment, but he’s frozen in place when the uninvited occupant of his bed rouses; the figure sits up and turns the flattest, most alien expression Yuuri has ever seen on him. He’s pinned in place by wide-set blue eyes, unblinking as they stare through him. The man has a wide forehead, sharp cheekbones, and a chin that’s more pointed than square. His hair hangs around his face in a ragged bob that manages to look both disheveled and perfectly composed. He blinks, finally, his whole face brightening with sudden animation. He smiles, eyes sharp and interested.

“Good morning Yuuri. What are we doing today?”

Yuuri makes a noise a bit like he’s deflating, and edges along the wall until he gets to his bedroom door. He opens it behind his back, slips out with careful deliberation, and doesn’t take his eyes of the man in his bed even as he shuts the door on him. Then he flees to the washroom and locks himself inside.

~

Yuuri covers the bathroom mirror with a towel and sits as quietly as he can, listening to the stranger move around his apartment, trying to make out what he could be doing. He seems to approach the bathroom door several times, but wanders off each time when his quarry fails to emerge. Yuuri doesn’t have his phone, otherwise he’d call someone for help. He’s wondering if he should risk making a run for his bedroom when the footsteps draw near once again.  

“Yuuri,” he says, almost hesitant. “Are you alright? Can I help?”

Yuuri can’t help it, he guffaws loudly, clapping a hand over his own mouth to stop the sound. “Can you get me my phone?” he asks, propelled by the absurdity of the situation.

“Alright,” chirps the man, footsteps creaking against the old wood floor, headed in the opposite direction of Yuuri’s bedroom. He assumes that means the man will be looking for a while, but after a series of noises from the kitchen the man returns and knocks softly on the bathroom door.

“I’ve brought the telephone,” he says, and Yuuri cracks the door open out of sheer curiosity.

The man has indeed brought the telephone, has unplugged the landline in the kitchen and brought the entire set to Yuuri. The man’s brow furrows as Yuuri fails to react to his offering, the corners of his mouth dipping sadly.

“Is it wrong?” he asks, studying the device in his hands. “It looks like a telephone, and I didn’t see a phonograph. Gosha says people don’t use them anymore, anyway.”

There’s something tragic about the figure the man cuts, hair hanging over his slumped shoulders as he inclines his head, looking dejectedly at the device in his hands. Yuuri sighs, manually overriding the part of his brain that throws up alarm bells at the way the man says “people” as if he wasn’t one.

“It’s not what I meant, but it is a phone. If you put on clothes I’ll show you what a cell phone is.”

The man smiles at him, so lovely it’s hard to remember the flat expression those features had been arranged in earlier.

“It’s a deal.”

~

The man disappears into the bedroom and returns wrapped in Yuuri’s bathrobe, which Yuuri finds mostly acceptable. He thinks the man would fit into at least some of his clothes, but isn’t going to force the issue. He presents himself proudly, and smiles as Yuuri cautiously comes out of the bathroom. He trails behind Yuuri as he retrieves his cell phone and goes to sit in the kitchen. It’s either this or the couch, and he prefers having the table between them.

Yuuri explains what a cell phone is as best he can, and even plugs the landline back in to demonstrate that it can still make calls. The man is attentive, leans across to drag a finger over the screen when Yuuri offers.

“How does it work?”

“I’m not really sure, there’s more than one kind of touchscreen. I think this one can detect the electrical charge when you touch it.” Yuuri almost expects him to ask about electricity next, but he just nods along.

Yuuri can’t think of a delicate way to ask, and he gets the feeling offending his strange guest would be bad idea, but there’s really no getting around the question.

“Who are you?” Unsaid, go the numerous and pressing addendums. _Why are you here? How do you know me? Why are you naked?_ And perhaps most damningly, _What are you?_

The man’s face takes on a downturned cast again, worried. “I’m Victor,” he says, eyes darting as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

Yuuri is grasping after a half-formed idea, something about the way he’d named his dog, when the man grows impatient and stands up. “I’m **Victor** ,” he says again, and this time the word is heavy, gleaming, like a gold coin being pressed into a slot.

Yuuri looks at the figure standing in his kitchen; he’s cold, imposing, and wild around the edges again. _Oh,_ he thinks, _this is Victor._ _I could call him from anywhere in the world and he’d come._ He blinks away the white spots dancing behind his eyelids, reeling at the knowledge that’s somehow been downloaded directly into his brain, without any obvious source of sensory input.

“What's wrong? You’re acting very strangely Yuuri.” Victor is both familiar and impossibly foreign, softening when he looks at Yuuri, but distant and eldritch when he looks away.

 _You think I’m strange?_ Yuuri can’t hold the delirium inside anymore, he drops his head into his arms and starts laughing. When Victor drops a concerned hand on his shoulder, he just laughs harder.

~

Victor relocates him to the couch, apparently concerned he was about to pass out again. Hilariously, he takes on the mien of someone who’s realized they’re in over their head as he buzzes around the kitchen, looking for something to do. He manages to locate the stovetop kettle Yuuri and Phichit never actually use, opting instead to just microwave a mug more often than not, and sets about making tea. He smells the tea-bags curiously, but seems to grasp their use without difficulty

He brings Yuuri a hot mug, then just sort of hovers uncertainly, eyeing both the couch, and the second mug he’d left in the kitchen. High on incredulity, Yuuri finds it kind of adorable.

“Are you going to drink your tea?”

Victor looks at Yuuri, weighing something mysterious in his head again. “Can I?”

“Yes,” Yuuri replies, succumbing to the inevitable and making space for Victor on the couch. He retrieves his tea and folds himself into the space, somehow dignified even in Yuuri’s old bathrobe. Everything draps flatteringly on him, he might as well be in evening-wear considering the poise he grants the garment.

Yuuri sips his tea and Victor watches him, a task he appears to find totally engrossing. He doesn’t fidget, might not even blink. Yuuri’s too unnerved to watch him back long enough to check. Eventually, he lowers his mug and gathers his courage. He’s not really afraid Victor is going to hurt him, just very cognizant that he has no idea what’s going on. There’s really only one way forward, but open conversations make Yuuri nervous at the best of times, to say nothing of questioning an enigmatic being that stepped out of his mirror.

“I wasn’t dreaming, you actually came out of my mirror didn’t you?”

Victor nods once, primly. “Yes, they’re very convenient.”

Yuuri is suddenly afraid of what all might have been watching him sleep through those mirrors, but he swallows it, trying to untangle the mess of questions in his head, looking for the strand that will make it all unravel.

“Can you...can you please just explain to me what’s going on?”

“You called and I came.” Victor is tentative, as if he knows this answer isn’t helpful, but isn’t sure what would be. It reminds Yuuri of trying to make conversation when his English wasn’t very good, of two people talking past each other without ever understanding what the other was saying. Piling on more words only tended to make it worse, but he can’t exactly mime out what he’s trying to ask.

“Okay, but I wasn't trying to.”

Victor looks away for the first time since he sat down. He’s back to being indecipherable, but he at least doesn't look surprised.

“I know,” he says quietly, leaving the admission hanging in the air for a moment. “You weren’t calling for me, but you did invoke my name thrice with the intention of summoning the bearer. It was enough to let me come to you.”

Victor turns back to him, eyes stormy now, displeased. “It was the only way I could find out why you never called for me properly. I know I'm not...really meant to be a muse, but you said you wanted me.”

 _I said what now?_ Yuuri feels like he's finally closing in on the heart of the matter, but Victor is narrowing his eyes at him, expression poisonous.

“Did you find someone else?” Suddenly, from one moment to the next, Victor becomes willowier. His face narrows, and his hair falls over his shoulders in loose curls. Yuuri leans hard into the arm of the couch, not prepared for the sudden warping of reality.

“I'm better than some mortal,” he says, astoundingly arrogant and wrenchingly vulnerable at the same time. “I can be anything you want.”

Yuuri has so many questions, but he fixates on the curls **.** He makes the connection to the girl from yesterday lightening-fast, the first time he hasn't struggled to connect the dots today.

“Are you _jealous?”_

“Yes,” Victor very nearly hisses at him. “You were supposed to be mine.”

Well, that’s certainly a stunning conceit. Yuuri spares a moment to worry about the surveillance he's apparently been under _\- I knew it felt like I was being watched -_ and another to wonder how dangerous a possessive magical stalker might be. Victor just looks so pathetic though, like a cat drenched in water; all that lithe grace and predator instinct reduced to undignified misery. Yuuri kind of wants to pet his hair and tell him it will be alright, and that thought threatens to bring back the delirious laughter.

“Can you go back to the part where we’ve apparently met before?”

Oh, Victor looks truely wounded now, expression pinched and eyes glassy. It would have been bad before, but it's devastating on his new, more androgynous face. “That's cruel. I didn't think you were cruel.”

“I’m not trying to be, I just…” _I_ _don’t know who you are._ Except that isn't exactly true; this is Victor, ringing true and clear, heavy and shining in his mind like a gold coin. Yuuri doesn’t know a thing about him, really, but seems to know exactly who he is anyway.

 _I don’t believe in magic,_ Yuuri reminds himself, in defiance of jealous shapeshifters and immortal hamsters and suspiciously familiar poodles. “I think maybe you have the wrong person. I don't remember you, and you’d be hard to forget. ”

Victor looks like he’s trying to parse out whether he’s been insulted or complimented, but settles on glaring. “We do not lie, Katsuki Yuuri.”

He’s so very mercurial, almost childishly earnest one moment and forebodingly recondite the next. Yuuri is alarmed and not at all charmed. _I will not tolerate this gross invasion of my privacy just because he's pretty._ He takes in the shape-changing person of unknown origin who stepped out of his mirror, pale silken hair now tumbling fetchingly down the back of Yuuri’s appropriated robe. _I might tolerate this gross invasion of my privacy because he's pretty and I don't know how to stop him._

“I never said you lied, just that there must be some kind of misunderstanding.” Victor looks muleish and ready to protest, but is distracted by Yuuri’s phone buzzing a text alert. He checks it mostly to give himself a second to disengage from the conversation, but it's just Phichit saying he's on his way home.

 _Well, shit._ He weighs his options, considers the unlikeliness of resolving whatever’s going on with Victor in the next 30 minutes, and what an inevitable disaster trying to hide him in his room would be.

“I need to go for a walk. Will you come with me?”

Victor looks at him beneath his lashes, which are the same pale bleached-bone shade as his hair, and utterly fascinating. “Of course Yuuri, I'm here to help.”

“Okay. Good. You're going to need more clothes.”

~

Victor pouts a bit about putting on pants, but quickly acquiesces when he realizes he’ll get to wear more of Yuuri’s clothes. Yuuri realizes belatedly that Victor could probably just magic an outfit out of nothing, but isn't willing to try to wrest Victor’s prizes from him. He's petting the fabric if the t-shirt he's wearing, and it's very distracting, because Yuuri can see the ridges of his abs through the damn t-shirt.

Oh yes, once unleashed Victor had disappeared into the closet until he found the softest, most worn out shirt and jogging pants Yuuri owned. Yuuri might have expected him to choose something more stylish, but Victor is apparently willing to coast on his ability to look good in anything.

He’d examined himself in the mirror, apparently been dissatisfied by the loose fit of the outfit, and abruptly bulked up to his original size. Adding to Yuuri’s distress, he’d kept the hair, the longest strands falling against the dip of his lower back. That's when the petting had started. Before Yuuri's dazed eyes, Victor lifts the bottom hem of the shirt towards his nose curiously, exposing the abs that will surely haunt Yuuri's dreams and a sliver of pink nipple. Yuuri doesn't have the composure left to do anything but stare.

The shirt is clean, but must smell like 3 years of Yuuri either sweating or sleeping in it. Victor hums a pleased little noise, and Yuuri struggles to keep either his face or his knees from crumpling. Victor drops the hem, but Yuuri only has a moment to think it’s a mercy before he raises his hands to bury them in his hair.

“What to you think Yuuri?” he asks, gathering his hair as if to pull it into a high ponytail. He turns his head, examining the effect, before slanting a look back towards Yuuri in the mirror. “Maybe you could help me braid it?”

Yuuri doesn’t whimper. _He doesn’t_. The way Victor rounds on him with abrupt interest is just coincidence. He drops the hair to press a finger against his lips, and it sweeps downwards in an alluring, heavy fall.

“Or perhaps,” Victor starts, bending a bit towards Yuuri as he leans in. The sheaf of hair swinging with his motion is suddenly abbreviated, bangs just long enough to brush one high cheekbone. The rest is shorn short, and even though Yuuri mourns the loss it’s an undeniably good look on Victor, masculine but soft. A good haircut for a performer, Yuuri can’t help but notice, with how expressively the new bangs move with Victor.

“You liked me like this, right Yuuri?”

“Umm.” Yuuri does like him like this, slender but goddamn built and wearing Yuuri’s cloths, hair falling over his eye in a way that would drive Yuuri crazy. Might still drive him crazy, even though it’s not Yuuri’s face being tickled by the soft strands. Maybe that’s what Victor’s here for, maybe throwing himself at hapless targets so he can drive them mad with confusion and lust is what he does. Supernatural beings aren’t exactly known for being nice, and he’s not blind to the way Victor had been gauging his interest, probing him for a reaction. Victor _seems_ nice enough, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. He’s _seemed_ like any number of things today, proving that Yuuri can’t trust even his own two eyes.

“What do you really look like?” Yuuri hears the bluntness of the question and winces, quickly rephrasing. “I mean, it’s very nice Victor. But you should just be yourself, you know?”  

That’s...better, though still not great. Yuuri makes a mental note to speak clearly and not equivocate. Given the way he’d “summoned” Victor what he says and how he says it might have unintended consequences. He wants to avoid accidentally invoking any more arcane agreements if at all possible. On that note, hopefully inviting Victor to “be himself” won’t drop any sort of interdimensional horror into Yuuri’s bedroom.

 _Fuck,_ why did he only think of that now. Yuuri’s from Japan, he should know that _anything,_ no matter how adorable, might secretly be a tentacle monster.

...Would he mind if Victor was a tentacle monster?

Banishing that train of thought to the deeply buried place where “things that are Christophe Giacometti’s fault” reside, Yuuri hopes desperately that Victor can’t read minds. Victor, for his part, is still leaning entirely too close while looking pensive.

“I don’t understand, how could I be anything but myself? I’ll never have another name. Can you change who you are, Yuuri? Is that why you’re so different?” Victor, never one to conform to expectations, looks thrilled by the possibility rather than dismayed.

Yuuri has a moment to wonder if Victor hasn’t put his finger on exactly what it means to be human, the ongoing quest to change yourself into someone better. Victor, however, demands his attention by looping both arms around his neck and grinning, warm and real in a way he hasn’t been all day.

“Show me who you are now Yuuri! It’s only fair, I told you name. I’ll still do my best to help you.” Victor punctuates whatever point he’s trying to make by draping himself full-bodied against Yuuri, as if he expects Yuuri to catch him.

“Hurk,” says Yuuri, back protesting the added weight.

Victor unhands him immediately. “What is it? What did I do? You don't want to dance again?”

“S’okay,” breaths Yuuri, already planning how he’s going to stuff an icepack into his waistband for the walk. It won’t be dignified or comfortable, but it’s not like anyone will notice him with Victor nearby anyway. “I just hurt my back a while ago, I’d be at practice now if it hadn’t happened.”

“You’re injured?” asks Victor, sounding baffled. Maybe he’s not used to flimsy mortals. Disconcertingly, after a moment he clasps his hands together with excitement and leans back in, although carefully not touching Yuuri this time. “Where? Is it bad? Show me.”

 _“Oh, of course Victor, I always show strange men who climb in bed with me while I’m unconscious my weak spots,”_  Yuuri does not say. Maybe Victor really is an alien. “There’s nothing to see, it’s just a muscle strain.”

“Yuuurri,” Victor whines, stretching it out like the brat he absolutely is. “Show me. I can help.”

Yuuri probably shouldn’t let Victor do anything magical to his body. That seems like the kind of thing that should get you disqualified from competitions and also just a bad precedent to set in general, given Victor’s lax understanding of personal boundaries. But if Victor _can_ witch-doctor him back into shape, he can go back to the ice. It’s been almost 4 weeks, enough time for a recovery to be credible, and he needs all the time he can get to train for worlds.

Well, that’s not a question at all. Yuuri turns around and hikes his shirt up. There really is nothing to see, but Victor trails exploratory fingertips over the small of Yuuri’s back anyway. “I can do it,” he says, “it just needs a bit of a push.”

“That would be great,” says Yuuri, before forcing himself to voice the awkward part. “But you know it’s not acceptable to just do things to my body without my agreement, right?”

“I suppose that's true, this is a bit beyond what most familiars do,” Victor replies over his shoulder. “We can make an agreement though! I’ll do it for a kiss.”

Maybe Yuuri is just tired of trying to parse Victor’s two-steps-off internal logic. Maybe it’s like with Chris, and this is just how he reacts if hounded persistently enough. Either way he twists around _-Ow-_ and grabs Victor’s borrowed shirt. He pulls the taller man down, lingers over the gasp-slackened mouth, then kisses him firmly on the cheek. “Deal,” he says.

He turns back around expectantly, just catching the blush that blooms across Victor’s cheeks. He wants to peek, to see how far the rosy hue will spread, because who would have thought Victor even _could_ blush? But he has a point to make, even if he can’t quite remember what it was right now.

“Wow,” says Victor. “Deal.”

~

Yuuri stretches a bit, then bends backwards like he’s trying imitate the layback Ina Bauer that Arakawa Shizuka made famous. Victor makes a noise he can’t be bothered to pay attention to, because his back doesn’t even twinge and he’s ecstatic. He’s happy in that way he feels with his whole body instead of his brain. It’s not the successfully navigated gambit with Victor or even the prospect of returning to the rink, his body just feels right again and it’s amazing.

 _Now I just need bruised feet and sore legs, and everything will be perfect._ The thought isn’t even sardonic, he’s looking forward to going back to normal.

Victor, of course, isn’t normal. But they’ll go for a walk and figure it out, Yuuri’s feeling pretty forgiving of Victor’s peculiarities at the moment. He probably isn’t here to devour Yuuri’s immortal soul after all, even if he has only the most abstract understanding of what personal space is. He is really, really not human so it probably isn’t his fault.

Yuuri smiles at him, and Victor blushes again. His ears turn pink, and it’s honestly one of the most endearing things Yuuri has ever seen. He’d suspect Victor of fabricating it for exactly that effect, except there’s no way Victor understands humans well enough to pull that off. He definitely knows how attractive his toned body and eye-catching hair are, and is neither shy nor subtle about flaunting either. Yuuri thinks the pinked ears peeking through pale hair must be uncalculated though, and that makes Victor’s whole physical being more real.

Victor can change what he looks like with a thought. He’s warm, he breaths, but for all Yuuri knows he’s a projection; he could be not really here or nothing like he appears, just a trick played on Yuuri’s senses. The blush though, makes Yuuri think that Victor is actually inhabiting whatever form he’s wearing. It’s cute, and Yuuri is too pleased by his renewed good health to even resent the way Victor is growing on him.

 _Like moss_ , Yuuri thinks, given the way he trails a foot behind Yuuri as he gathers up his things. Yuuri grabs Vicchan’s collar and leash, jingling the tags in a way that always brings the little dog running. Vicchan isn’t shy, so it’s surprising he hasn’t made an appearance, but who knows what Victor must smell like to him. Oh well, he’ll introduce them, and it will be fine.

“Vicchan!” he calls, and wonders if he’ll ever be able to do that without remembering what happened last night. Probably not.

“Ahh,” says Victor, and Yuuri smiles a little, because really.

“I definitely meant my dog that time Victor.”

“Umm.”

Yuuri gets it in a flash, for the second time that day. The smile drops off his face, and his extremities go cold. “Victor,” he says, very calm. “What did you do to my dog?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mid-length fiction is strange, and I have no idea what comes next. Oh, did I fool you into thinking I actually had a plan? I could go with my original idea, which would be tighter and better focused on the themes and outcome I was pursuing. Or I could hare off in another direction where I get to make up shit and write adventures instead trying to convincingly fake my way through more skating. I dunno.
> 
> Feel free to comment or look me up on tumblr if you have an opinion, though what I end up going with will also depend on my workload and how much time I think I'll have to write. Also you can prod me for signs of life and/or demand explanations for why I ruin everything with my strange writing habits. 
> 
> Tumblr is [here](https://adelth.tumblr.com/)
> 
> As always, thanks for reading.


	3. The Walk of Shame (part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having an irksome week, so I pushed to get this out quicker than usual to cheer myself up. I hope it's not too rough around the edges as a result.
> 
> Also, witness my total lack of commitment towards formatting realistic twitter messages. I don't even really know what they're supposed to look like, so you're going to have to bear with me.

_Yuuri gets it in a flash, for the second time that day. The smile drops off his face, and his extremities go cold. “Victor,” he says, very calm. “What did you do to my dog?”_

“Nothing bad!” protests Victor, which is not reassuring. Yuuri tries to convey the depth of his dissatisfaction through the force of his glare. He has Victor’s name, which has some sort of weight, and he’ll move heaven and earth to rescue his dog if he has to.

Victor throws his hands up, open palmed, as if that means he’s in any way disarmed. “I didn’t do anything wrong!” Yuuri doesn’t say anything. He’s not going to argue, they can do that after he gets his dog back. Without anything to push back against, Victor flags, the wind dying behind his sails.

“I wouldn’t harm your dog Yuuri,” he says. His hands drop to hang at his sides, fingers curled in a display of helplessness just as blatantly false as his putative disarmament. He may not be able to lie with words, but he certainly can with gestures. “I _couldn’t_ harm your dog, -not that I’d want to- but you won him fairly. I would not be able to interfere.”

“Are you telling me _someone else_ took my dog?”

“I…” Victor stops, completely. He does the thing where he checks out, pulls back and examines Yuuri from behind the gap in comprehension that separates them. Yuuri stares back, resolute, trying to ignore the tears starting to pool in his eyes. He hates the weakness that threatens to set his frame trembling, especially in the face of Victor’s ready stoicism, but he wants his dog. The untapped grief he never had to deal with properly wells up inside him, rising unbidden from the dark places it had been lurking. _You should have known_ , it reminds him. _You should have known there was no easy way out._

“I have erred,” says Victor. “I never meant to make you afraid.”

“Don’t fucking nab people’s pets if you don’t want to scare them Victor! This isn’t alright! _Where is my dog?_ ” Yuuri loses his battle against a tear that snakes its way down his cheek, and that makes the words angrier than they might have been. Not that he isn’t angry, but refusing to fight Victor was his best strategy. He can feel the blood rushing to his face, hot and splotchy with his upset.

“I am...sorry. I’m sorry, Yuuri. I’ll show you, everything will be fine.” Yuuri is too bleary eyed to follow the minutiae of Victor’s expressions, but he sees the way Victor restrains himself from reaching for Yuuri, instead gesturing for him to follow back to the bedroom. It’s lucky he had enough sense not to touch Yuuri, because he doesn’t know what he would have done, but it would probably have been ugly.

Enclosed in the familiar confines of Yuuri’s bedroom once again, Victor touches a finger to the closet mirror. The scene displayed changes in a ripple from the point of contact, the reflection of the room folding into a landscape, rolling green hills under a bright sun. Victor whistles sharply, and one distant green mound stirs, shaking its head and turning to trot towards them.

Once Yuuri manages to adjust to the scale of the creature, he realizes it’s a dog. A dog larger than a cow, its shaggy fur dark green and curling, but recognizably a dog. Further inspection of the braids and beads worked into its coat is derailed by happy barking drawing his attention to the much smaller figure darting playfully around its legs. _Vicchan._

Yuuri blinks, thrown by the scene. He watches Vicchan gambol around the strange creature in his mirror, while Victor stands silent by his side. He’s not entirely assured that all is well, but seeing Vicchan makes the worst of his worry unclench. He doesn’t say anything to Victor, because he doesn’t want to voice anything stupidly forgiving out of relief. This is still, objectively, not okay.

It takes several minutes, but eventually the dogs get close enough for Vicchan to recognize Yuuri standing in the doorway, at which point he comes running. The larger beast ambles along slightly faster to keep up. When Vicchan reaches the mirror, he goes up on his back paws, leaning against the surface as if it were solid. His tail wags and he pants, winded by the exertion. He seems wholly untroubled by his unexpected adventure.

Yuuri lowers himself to one knee, touches the mirror showing him Vicchan. The larger dog sits itself down too, thankfully mindful of Vicchan’s small form. It’s so big it blocks out most of the view, but it makes an agreeably friendly sort of grumble as it settles.

Victor splays a hand against the mirror, and the large dog huffs a breath in reply. “This is Makkachin. He’s my...not pet. He’s my friend, my companion. I asked him to watch your Vicchan while he was in our lands.”

Yuuri is torn between pursuing more information, and his pressing desire to hold his dog. “Can Vicchan come back now?”

Victor sighs, but gives way. “Yes. I forfeit the walk you offered me.” He steps fluidly through the mirror, and Vicchan tumbles forward into Yuuri’s lap. Victor’s own companion, Makkachin, butts a massive head against his chest in greeting. Victor scratches at the proffered ears listlessly, face turned away from Yuuri.

If Yuuri doesn’t say anything, he thinks Victor will leave and never come back. It would be a relief, surely, he could get on with his normal life and never have to worry about arcane deals with overzealous magical beings again. He should quit while he’s ahead, with his dog and his healed back; humans rarely get off so well in folklore. He should forget Victor, with his odd hair and arresting eyes and hurt feelings.

“Your...friend seems really nice.” Yuuri is unsure about the etiquette of calling a potentially sapient creature a ‘good boy’. “Can you thank him for looking after Vicchan for me?”

Victor keeps scratching Makkachin’s ears, but turns his profile just enough for Yuuri to catch the edge of a rueful smile. “You could thank him yourself, but you shouldn’t. It would imply you were party to the favor I owe him. He is unlikely to demand payment in anything but scratches, but it is unwise to make a habit of thanking the sídhe.”

 _Shi-Shi,_ Yuuri thinks, _go away._ Not that whatever Victor is naming seems likely to share linguistic roots with Japanese. Just Yuuri’s luck that he’d get mixed up with something he doesn’t have the appropriate cultural references for. If Victor isn’t Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, or the Tooth Fairy, Yuuri has exhausted his understanding of western mythology.

“You’re not the Tooth Fairy are you?”

Victor claps both hands over his mouth and rounds on Yuuri, utterly shocked. “Yuuri!” he exclaims, before seeming to get a handle on himself and continuing in a hushed voice. “You can’t just say things like that, you’ll offend someone. I have enough trouble with Yura. Call us fae if you must, but never fairies.” Makkachin, for his part, whines piteously and rolls over on his back with an audible “thump”. The impression of wounded dignity is somewhat diminished by the still grinning mouth and lolling tongue, and his tail beats heavily against the ground.

“Err,” says Yuuri, “sorry.”

Victor just sighs. “Do not apologize so readily either, least someone take it as acknowledgement of a debt. Makkachin is amused, not offended. After centuries of being called a ‘fairy hound’ he finds it fitting that I should suffer the same.”

Oh, right then. Yuuri will just have to forget every habitual politeness he ever learned growing up in the customer service industry, and still take care not to offend anyone. Perfect. And to think, the JSF had been so very pleased by his innate grasp of _keigo._ Yuuri grasps at a strain of thought that flits through his mind. “But you did it first. You apologized, I mean.”

“I did not do so lightly Yuuri. I _am_ sorry; I did you unintended unkindness, and there is little enough you can ask from me that I would not do willingly, should it be within my power.” Victor slumps to the ground beside Makkachin, the tableau made absurd by Yuuri’s innocuous workout clothes. _Gorgeous spirit and giant green hound in repose, outfit by uniqlo._

Yuuri swallows the reflex to thank Victor for his apology. “So you’re both...fae? Sídhe?” _Both some kind of yokai?_

Victor scrunches his nose as if he detects the unsaid thought, but nods. “To speak coarsely, Makkachin is a fairy hound, and I am a banshee. Natural friends, you might say.”

Yuuri, who is just familiar enough with the word “banshee” to equate it to “hag”, blinks in confusion. “You’re a…” _Old woman?_

Victor slumps further and turns his face away again. “Yes Yuuri. I suppose you didn’t know, or you’d have lavished your attentions on some sylphe or undine instead. Your mourning and the drink must have brought you to me. It is just as well you were deep in your cups when you arrived at the revelry. I may not be much of a muse, but making such an invitation to some of those in attendance would have been truly dangerous.”

Yuuri doesn’t _think_ Victor was confirming that he’s actually an old lady, and it’s honestly kind of trivial compared to the bulk of information that’s just been revealed. “Victor,” he starts, but hesitates, considering how to approach the issue. “Do you know what alcohol does to people? I mean, people like me. Humans?”

Victor turns enough to eye Yuuri suspiciously through his bangs, as though he thinks he’s being set up for a trick. “It impairs your thinking, causes a loosening in inhibitions. Frequently it induces euphoria, but some have other emotional responses. Those who become sad or angry do not last long at our parties.”

 _I just bet they don’t._ “And it makes us forget.”

Victor faces Yuuri fully, brows drawn together. His gaze is sharp and inquiring, still looking for the trap. “It makes them forget their troubles for a time. If you’re implying that you do not recall the night we met, I certainly didn’t let you near our wine, which would have induced such forgetting.”

 _I’m going to explain binge drinking to a fairy now_ , Yuuri realizes, regretting his life choices. “Okay, well, I don’t know about magic booze, but the normal kind does the same thing if you drink a lot of it fast enough.”

Victor’s hands have stopped scratching, and his eyes bore into Yuuri. “Why?”

“Umm…” Yuuri shifts a bit, settling Vicchan’s dozing body more comfortably in his lap while he tries to bring up the technical answer. “A sudden spike in blood alcohol content causes a chemical disruption in the part of the brain that creates new memories, producing an effect similar to retrograde amnesia.”

“Why?”

 _Really Victor?_ “Steroids? Because of...a compound, neurons produce steroids that impair LTP? Long term potentiation! That’s what LTP means.” Victor stares fixedly, so Yuuri just keeps hemorrhaging half remembered lessons. “Glutamate! Is the compound that carries signals between neurons. Alcohol messes with the receptors that transmit it in the hippocampus.” _Fuck yeah, glutamate. Beat that Victor!_

Victor is still staring, but Yuuri just stares back. He came up with goddamn glutamate. If Victor wants to know about the ins-and-outs of neurotransmitters, cells charges, and NMDA and non-NMDA receptors, he can go bother a doctor.

“You really don’t remember.” The words are quiet, and not a question at all. Victor drops his eyes from Yuuri’s, face downturned, but he doesn’t have enough hair to hide his expression anymore.

In the distance, Yuuri hears the jangling of keys and the sound of the apartment door opening. Phichit is home.

“I should go,” says Victor without looking up.

“Yeah.” Yuuri looks at his hands, at Vicchan breathing against his knee. “You could come back sometime, though, if you wanted. We could talk.”

When Yuuri looks up, the mirror is just a mirror. He isn't sure if Victor heard.

~

Victor sits, legs thrown over the edge of a tall cliff. Far below there is shifting mist and silence, but the chasm has no bottom. Victor isn’t sure what would happen to him if young Yuri were to lose his temper and succeed in pushing him over the edge. He supposes he’d fall until one of the queens needed him for something and thought to fetch him. He might go mad in the meantime.

Yura thinks he’s mad already, so maybe it wouldn’t be that different.

“Why are we here old man? I thought you were finally going to stop mooning after that mortal and teach me something.” Yura does not sit with Victor, that would be entirely too companionable for the prickly faeling. He stands hunched instead, as if to ward off the vast silence the way he would the wind. Makkachin lounges in the sun, unbothered by their antics.

“You don’t want to learn from me, you’re too impressed by the strength of your own voice to hear anything else.” Here’s the truth: Yura has a fine voice. He can cut through wind and waves, through the illusions that gird the hearts of men. He can cut their legs from beneath them, a brutal lance piercing through and laying bear their grief. This is not a useless gift; it is the sort of mourning some people need, when they must cry hard and fast and carry on. He has a way with soldiers for exactly this reason.

He is less good with the waiting widows, who mourn like the tide, grief rushing in and out according to the unyielding dictates of the moon. He does not understand the difference between wailing and lamenting; the only rough comfort he values is excoriation.

 _Ah, to be young._ Yura has mastered sound and fury; significance eludes him. Victor, who has sung not only the deaths of kings and empresses, but those of kingdoms and empires, might as well explain nuance to the waiting void. In fact, the futility of such a task is exactly what’s brought him here.

“You think all you need to do is fill a space with noise, well, go ahead.” Victor gestures invitingly towards the drop-off. “Impress me.”

“Fine, I will.” Yura can be reprimanded for petulance and impatience, but never for a lack of determination. He draws on the wyrd with thoughtless ease, lets the shriek loose with enough power to crack glass and curdle blood, takes the opportunity to push himself to the limit. The uncaring void eats the cry, but he seems satisfied by the way it must still ring in his ears.

“Hmm,” says Victor. “Makkachin.” The hound will demand scratches later, but comes to join them by the edge, tail sweeping side to side. He warms himself up with a few barks, then launches into a long multi-tonal bay, cresting and trailing off into the distance. He cocks his head, listening for his moment, then bays a second and third time, creating his own echoes, defining a space that lacks natural definition. For a long moment the void is full of noise, a swirling echo chamber of overlapping baying; the sound is near and distant, sharp and fading at the same time.

Yuri listens, enraptured, the wyrd still thrumming as silence retakes the chasm. He keeps his eyes open, keen and resolute even now. “How did he do that?” he asks, too acquisitive to be shy about asking. His ambition, too, can be relied upon.

“Sometimes,” Victor says, “mourning is about letting yourself be be empty, sometimes it’s about filling a space. Sometimes it’s creating meaning where there is none.”

Yuri, to his credit, considers this. “That sounds a lot like lying.”

“I suppose it does, but straddling worlds is in our nature Yura. We are part of death, but death is not part of us. We do not sing for our own kind, after all.”

This is the strange part of being a _bean sídhe_. Yuri is happy to embrace the grim reputation, but they are bad omens and the guardians of memory both. They are unchanging agents of change, who enshrine the past so the participants can move on from it.

They are less concerned by the dealings of the courts than most, having their own interests to serve. They interact with the mortal world regularly, but have little use for the games some of their kin like to play. Possibly exposure makes mortals less of a novelty, though it rarely equates to meaningful interaction. No one comes to a banshee looking for favours. No one falls in love with them from afar, or plys them with kind words, or seeks them out at a revelry and asks them to dance.

Artists don’t tell them they’re so beautiful it’s _inspiring_ , not without poison coloring their thoughts. They’re only banshees, after all.

~

Yuuri says hello to Phichit and goes for a long, long walk. He leaves Vicchan, already exhausted, sleeping in the apartment. He comes home, asks Phichit about his day, does the laundry that’s been building up, makes dinner, and prepares for bed. He covers the mirrors in his room, because even though it makes him feel a bit guilty, there is zero chance he’s going to sleep wondering if he’s being watched through them. He doesn’t actually have that much in the way of spare linens, so he resorts to cutting the side seams of large black garbage bags and taping them up.

The end result is astoundingly ugly, and if anyone ever sees they’ll think he’s lost his mind. He hesitates over getting into bed, because the lingering presence of another person is uncanny. Victor had slept in this bed with him last night. For once, it isn’t made, and he can still see the furrow the other man’s body had left. There’s something unsettling about climbing back in alone, for all that Victor was never welcome in his bed in the first place.

Well, not while Yuuri was sober anyway. Drunk, it’s easy enough to believe he’d have seen Victor and been happy to go to bed with him. It’s less easy to believe he’d have done anything about it. He should probably give up drinking, accidentally leading on a banshee is probably a pretty good sign you can’t handle your liquor.

Actually, that brings up another horrifying question. He reaches for his phone and launches the dreaded twitter app. _“Chris, serious question. Did I really come on to Sara and Michele Crispino?”_  

Chris responds almost instantly, as if he has nothing better to do than ruin Yuuri’s life with a message containing only a series of eggplant emojis. The follow up contains actual text, which isn’t actually an improvement. _“Yes. It was amazing. I think Michele hates you for making him question either his own heterosexuality or whether he’d be down for a threesome with his sister.”_

Yuuri moans into his pillow while his phone keeps pinging with messages, which are inevitably a pandora’s box of perversion.

_“Or both! Eggplant Eggplant Eggplant.”_

_“Why, are they taking you up on it?”_

_“Did they send pictures?”_

_“Don’t worry, from experience, I’m sure you could handle them. Eggplant.”_

_“How’s your dog btw?”_

_“He’s fine. Goodnight Chris,”_ Yuuri sends, because he was raised to be polite, dammit. Then he turns his phone off and pretends to be dead until he falls asleep.

~

Yuuri wakes up at 5:00 am sharp, and prods Vicchan into taking a short run. He showers then joins Phichit for breakfast, where his friend is kind enough to greet him cheerfully and not comment on how lax his schedule has been lately.

“So what are you going to work on today?”

“Ciao Ciao wants me to have that triple axel, triple toe for worlds. I can nail a double toe pretty consistently, but that extra rotation is killing me.”

“Yeah, that’s tough,” Yuuri sympathizes, playing his fingers against his warm mug. “I’m going to the rink today, I think I’m ready.”

“Ah,” says Phichit, torn between his usual chipperness and friendly concern. “Are you really? I know this whole thing sucks, but it’s not worth getting hurt over, you know?”

“Yeah, I really am. I feel much better now.” This is, of course, completely true. It only feels like a lie because Yuuri can’t explain _why_ he feels better.

“Well, that great!” Phichit rallies quickly, grinning at Yuuri. “I’ll see you on the ice.”

~

Yuuri shows up at the rink, gear in tow, right when the doors open at 7:00 am. Celestino informs him in no uncertain terms that he’s not getting on the ice without a doctor’s approval. No, not even if he marks his jumps. Not even just to skate figures. Not even just to do laps.

Pride wounded and dignity abandoned, Yuuri taps his foot anxiously the whole time he sits in the waiting room, gym bag at his side. The receptionist glares, and Yuuri decides to practice not being polite by ignoring it. He bends, he twists, he touches his toes. He’s prodded and poked. No doctor, it doesn’t hurt.

By noon, he’s back at the rink, doctor’s note in hand.

“Did you eat lunch?” Celestino asks.

Yuuri scowls, as ugly and black as he can make it. His coach just crosses his arms, unimpressed. “One hour Yuuri, nothing fancy. Stick to warm ups, and then you have to stop and eat. I’ll need the ice afterwards, but you can come back after 5 and get another couple hours in, as long as you don’t mind sharing space with some of my novice students. Don’t exhaust yourself, and if you look fine out there, you can come back tomorrow morning and we’ll get down to business.”

Yuuri _knows_ the novice skaters, and he _fears_ the novice skaters. They stare with rapacious eyes, and Yuuri always gets the uncomfortable feeling he’s being mentally undressed by a horde of small children. Being as they are actually prepubescent, he assumes they want to eat his flesh and take his power. Phichit, still in juniors himself, thinks it’s hilarious. _Someday he’ll learn._

“Yes Coach,” Yuuri concedes. Worlds is coming, he’ll just have to cope.

~

Yuuri returns home shamefully sore for how little he’s done today, and feeling vaguely unclean after being trailed by an entire class of underage novices. Celestino, too, apparently thought it was hilarious. Yuuri had actually taken a liking to one particularly sullen boy, a dark haired anklebiter who seemed to despise both Yuuri and skating. Yuuri could only assume he’d been forced into attendance by some determined parent. Just when Yuuri thought he’d found an ally, he’d been betrayed by the boy dragging him over to meet his mother.

“This is Yuuri mom. Don’t be weird, he’s alright.”

Dylan’s mom, over 30 and wearing a wedding band _-thank god-_ had complimented him on how good he was with children. Yuuri nodded along and pretended his English wasn’t great, which promptly backfired.

“You know, I have a cousin about your age who works with ESL students. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind meeting up with you if you wanted someone to practice with.”

“Unhmmff,” said Yuuri, before explaining that he was getting ready for Worlds and really wouldn’t have time for much of anything.

“Worlds,” said Dylan’s mom, shaking her head. “That’s very impressive Yuuri. I’ll leave her number with Coach Cialdini in case you change your mind. Thanks so much for keeping an eye on Dylan, but don’t let us interrupt your practice.” Yuuri evacuated to the far side of the rink at the first opportunity, and became very absorbed in working on his spins.

“Yuuri,” said Celestino as Yuuri was getting ready to leave for the night. He was holding a slip of paper and his grin was edging uncomfortably towards shit-eating. “Did one of the skating-moms leave you her number?”

“Un-uh,” Yuuri had grunted, and just kept walking.

He half suspects he’s going to find that number taped to his locker in the morning. It’s worth remembering that before he became a wrangler of recalcitrant athletes, Celestino was one himself. Still, Yuuri will get to go back to the rink tomorrow morning, and they’ll start working on a plan for worlds. That makes pretty much any level of discomfort worthwhile.

For now, he’s going to enjoy a hot shower, stretch out, and try to get a good night’s sleep. He’s stripped out of his clothes, and is examining the state of his toes while he waits for the water to heat up.

“Hey bozo, is Victor hiding in here? He's late _again._ ”

Yuuri swings his head around, caught between reluctance and urgency. There’s a child in his bathroom mirror, blond haired and angelic, barring the scowl Yuuri can only someday hope to rival. He not _novice_ young, but he’s young enough.

“Nope,” says Yuuri, and dives into the shower, cold water be damned. He draws the curtain behind him with a brisk “shink”. _Nope, nope, nope, nope._

~

Yuuri’s exit from the shower is not graceful; he peeks out warily, drawing the shower curtain around himself until he can make a grab for a towel. The bathroom is blissfully silent, but Yuuri has been fooled before. He sneaks back into his bedroom like he’s hiding from someone in his own apartment, then he throws on pajamas without bothering to towel off all the way.

He pulls down the garbage bag covering the closet mirror, and touches a hand to it. He doesn't let himself hesitate, _just like pulling off a bandaid._ “Victor. Victor. Victor.”

He steps back quickly after he’s done it, watching for any sign of movement. Water runs down his neck and into his collar from his still wet hair, and he pushes it away from his face in frustration.

“I didn’t think you’d call,” says his mirror.

Yuuri looks at his own reflection, squinting in confusion. “Victor?”

It’s the eyes that fade in first, blue and electric. Then there’s pale hair and skin, and Victor is standing in his mirror. It’s dusk, wherever he is now, and what light remains in the sky is blocked out by a canopy of old-growth trees. “Of course Yuuri, who else would appear before you this way.”

“That’s actually what I wanted to ask about. There was someone who showed up in my bathroom mirror?”

Yuuri means to go on and explain how very awful the whole experience was, but Victor interrupts sharply. “What? Who? Not the madame, surely.”

“I don’t know who it was Victor. He was young, blond hair, green eyes. He said he was looking for you. I’m really not alright with your friends dropping by.”

Victor lets out a long sigh of relief. “Yura, then. He is so impatient.”

“Um, yeah, sure. But is there any way to stop people from appearing unannounced in my mirrors? It’s going to be really inconvenient if I have to cover all of them, and also my roommate will think I’m insane.”

Victor considers the question. “Attach a loadstone to the surface.”

“A load- you mean a magnet?”

Victor hums his agreement. “The iron does not agree with most workings.”

“Oh, well.” Yuuri has to stop himself from thanking Victor for such an easy solution to his problem. “That’s good to know.” Victor’s lips twitch a bit at the edges, like he caught the swallowed thanks.

“It’s, your-” Yuuri stammers, coming down from the panic and not sure what he’s supposed to do with Victor now. “It’s good to see you Victor.”

“Is it?” asks Victor with potent curiosity, because of course he wouldn’t just accept a stock phrase like that.

Yuuri endeavors to find an earnest answer within himself. It is unsettling, having a stilted conversation the man who crawled in bed with his unconscious body. It’s also true that Victor had looked damn good in his bed, and he maybe wouldn’t mind having him back under better circumstances. Of course the actual circumstances are that Victor is some kind of not-fairy, and that’s both complicating and a bit frightening, and Yuuri has no real idea where they stand.

“Yeah,” says Yuuri. “It is.”

Victor’s smile widens just a little, bemused. “It is good to see you too, Yuuri.”

~

It starts with Vicchan pawing at the door, begging to be let in. Then Victor is calling Makkachin, who is apparently quite fond of the smaller dog, and would be glad to see him again. Then Yuuri is asking what sort of “fae” Makkachin is exactly, since he’ll never not want to know more about a dog.

“He’s a herald of death,” says Victor. “Very much like myself, and Yura.”

“Should I be worried?” asks Yuuri, not sure that meeting three death omens in the space of an hour is a good thing. Victor actually laughs at him, head thrown back to reveal his long neck. He’s attractive, oh yes, always. But he’s good company too, in his own idiosyncratic way, bright and inquisitive. He draws Yuuri into conversation naturally, as they try to reason out why a magnet will interfere with a mirror while the entire metal backing doesn’t.

“What does ‘cold iron’ even mean Victor? It’s not like either of these things have never been worked under heat.”

“Well,” says Victor, “if it interferes with workings of the wyrd it must be cold iron. If it doesn’t, it's not.” And with that pointed display of circular reasoning, he rests his case.

“How does it work? Not the iron. I mean, you and Vicchan can’t be here at the same time right?”

“Well, it would depend. I...exploited the situation to take the place of your familiar, which allowed me to show myself to you freely and work a certain amount of magic in your favour. You can’t _really_ have someone like me as a familiar, Yura would have a fit if he learned that’s how I’d done it. Beneath our dignity or some such.” Victor flaps a flippant hand from where he’s taken a seat, back to the room, reclined against his side of the mirror. Yuuri sits in a similar position, although staggered off to the side, so they can look each other in the eye if they both turn their heads.

“There are other sorts of contracts made between the _sídhe_ and mortals, but you must be careful of such things. Fae like myself or Makkachin have little cause to seek such a deal, but especially as an artist and entertainer, you must be wary if my kind take an interest.”

“Like that ‘Madame’ you mentioned?”

“Very much so, yes. A _leannán sídhe_ , she is terribly old and fond of dancers in particular. She’d make you greater than you’ve ever imagined, but she’d wring all life from you in the process, in the name of your art. She was at the party, Yuuri, and I worried for you. I would try to protect you from her, but there might be little I could do. Only bow, should you ever meet her; say nothing at all.”

 _Whatever did I do,_ Yuuri wonders, _to engender such loyalty._

Except Yuuri has an inkling, and it has less to do with him and more to do with Victor himself. Victor who seems to have only a hound, and possibly a scowling child-fae for friends. Victor who is very lonely, and happy to talk for hours with some mortal he met at a party once.

“Victor, would you like to go for a walk?”

“Oh,” says Victor, soft and surprised. “Yes. Yes I would.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Shi’ can mean a whole lot of things in Japanese, depending on context. The onyomi (and thus more traditional) reading of the kanji for death is pronounced “shi”, and one of the permutations is that “shi shi” means something like “shoo, go away” while a drawn out “shiiii” is more like “shush, be quiet.” There you go, Japanese lessons from a non-speaker.
> 
> Additionally, I may have somewhat mangled the pronunciation of sídhe for the sake of a pun? I’ve definitely heard it pronounced “shi”, but that may be confusion between aos sí and aes sídhe, which are exactly the same thing but from different periods. Adding to the confusion, I used Cù Sìth for “fairy hound”, which is actually the Scottish version. Cú Sídhe would have been more appropriate if I was trying to be consistently Irish. I’m going to assume no one actually cares and just pun away. For anyone keeping track, “sheeth-uh” may be a more accurate pronunciation of sídhe.
> 
> Keigo is...basically the underlying principle behind levels of formality that dictates the polite way to say something depending where you are and who you’re talking to in Japanese. It’s less “formal vs informal”, and more “respectful vs modest vs polite.” Only way more complicated? Apparently it’s confusing enough even to native speakers that employers often send newly hired graduates to classes on how to be polite in the workplace. I’ve read that growing up in a customer service oriented family business tends to give people a leg up, on that count. Can't for the life of me remember where I read it, so maybe take my understanding with a grain of salt. I tend to research, but I’m not an expert on any of this stuff. If you know better, feel free to correct me.
> 
> Researching drunk blackouts means I now get a bunch of ads cropping up urging me to seek help for my substance abuse problem, so that’s fun. Little do they know, feedback is my crack, and you can feel free to supply my habit if you’re so inclined.
> 
> Hey, didn't I say this would only be 2 or 3 chapters at some point? Who knows? Definitely not me.
> 
> Tumblr is [here](https://adelth.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thanks, as always, for reading my work.


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